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A sharp cry breaks the relative silence in a recovery room on the fifth floor of the Brooklyn Methodist Hospital. It rises and falls like a shrill siren, almost as tiny as the human producing it. It slices through Jake’s unconsciousness, rousing his instincts before his brain is fully awake. He blinks, and he’s standing over a plastic bassinet, staring down at a red-faced baby swaddled in a soft pink blanket.
“Sh, sh, sh, it’s okay,” he whispers, lifting her up and marveling for what has to be the hundredth time at how tiny and light she is. “It’s okay, Rae, I’m here. I’ve got you.”
He holds her close to his chest, ghosting his hand lightly over the back of her hat-covered head (and subsequently grinning at the thick curls he feels mashed down beneath said hat) and running it down her tiny back. Her cries are still sharp, but they’re muffled against his chest. He glances at Amy and sighs in relief when he sees that she’s still sound asleep in the hospital bed. Good, he thinks. After 32 hours of intense labor and nine months of growing an actual human being before that, it's definitely his turn.
“C’mere, Rae,” he whispers to his hours-old daughter, bouncing her lightly as he moves back toward the little futon he’d been asleep on just minutes earlier. He keeps bouncing her until her cries have mostly quieted down. He perches on the edge and carefully swings his legs up until he’s reclined against the lumpy mattress far enough that Raelays across his chest without him holding her in place. “I love you,” he says, craning his neck down to press his lips against her head. “You’re the most perfect little girl in the whole wide world and I’ll love you for the rest of my life. Forever and ever.” He closes his eyes and rubs her back, and it occurs to him that his palm covers her entire back, which is a really strange thing to think about, he thinks. He wonders if he was this tiny back when he was a newborn. “My dad, he was such...he was just a shit dad. He was the worst. So I don’t really know...how to be a dad. I mean, I watched Terry and stuff, and I guess I’m a godfather to Ava and Ellie, but...that’s different. It’s different, right?” Rae kicks her tiny foot against his ribs, and he smiles, briefly thinking to himself that it’s about time he took the brunt of her kicks rather than Amy. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess what I’m trying to tell you is...I’m gonna mess up. A lot. Because I have no idea what I’m doing. You’re probably gonna have to talk to Am-...mom,” his lips curl in an involuntary grin around the word, “about all the important stuff. Or at least double-check with her if you come to me first. But I promise...I swear I’ll never leave you. Either of you.” He turns his head toward his still-sleeping wife, hardly absorbing the way the dull moonlight makes her skin appear to glow through his own delirium. Rae's tiny fist knocks against his Adam’s Apple, and he chuckles. “I know, I know, I’m rambling. Sorry. I love you so much, Peanut.”
He isn’t sure when he stops talking or when he falls asleep, but he wakes up to a sharp kick to his ribs and a strange, muffled sound coming from Amy’s bed. He opens his eyes blearily and his hands automatically reach to touch the warm, soft weight against his chest.
“Don’t move, don’t move,” Amy’s tearful voice urges him. He turns his head and finds himself staring at her phone, and he furrows his brow until he realizes she’s snapping dozens of pictures. Tears are streaming down her pale cheeks but she’s got this impossibly huge grin on her face; under normal circumstances, the sight of her crying would be a massive cause of concern, but they’ve spent the last...God, he doesn’t even know how many hours they’ve been crying non-stop. He’s been an absolute wreck and she hasn’t been much better. “Oh my God you guys look so cute.” She sniffles.
He smiles sleepily and closes his eyes, happier and more content than he’s ever been in his life. He flexes his fingers against Rae's back and adjusts his head to lay a little more comfortably. “Love you guys,” he mumbles.